#ghost ficlets

[palesweetsdeer]

From whence you came - Phantom

(Batbug if you squint) Phantom has a panic attack about his time in the Pits, how fun! He gets help for it tho, don’t worry. TW for graphic descriptions of a panic attack!

Read this and other fun shit on my Ao3

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Phantom feels an utter sense of dread gnaw at his mind as he listens to Omega blab on and on about Ministry history and ‘a ghoul’s place’ (which seemed to be either at the side of a human or on a sacrificial altar and Phantom wasn’t quite sure how to feel about that). 

“- and that’s what happens. As you might’ve noticed, ghouls aren’t of much use to humans if they don’t have a purpose. We used to get sent back when-“ 

Phantom perks up and his tail twitches. He sits up from where he’d sunken down on the couch, trying to melt together with the cushions. 

“Sent back?”

Omega blinks at him slowly. 

“Is that all you got from this? Were you listening at all??” 

Phantom doesn’t answer. Can’t answer. His heart is pounding, filling his ears, drowning out any other possible sound. 

His tail is twitching, trying to get rid of the energy building up inside him, the anxiety bubbling to the top, scratching at his throat like a rabid cat. 

Sent back. They got sent back if they weren't of use anymore. 

His insides start curling up, he wants to puke, wants to scream, to tear his skin off. His ears are ringing and it feels like he’s going deaf with the sound of his own heart, slamming against his ribs like it means to break free. 

His chest heaves with short, shallow breaths and his body trembles as panic and adrenaline shoot through him, making his muscles spasm. His brain goes hazy, the only present thought is the fact that he will get sent back. 

If he ever stops being useful, he will get sent back to the Pits. No, no that can’t be. Copia wouldn’t let that happen, right? He wouldn’t let him return to his own personal hell to be killed off again. But then again, Copia didn’t know what he’d been through. 

Phantom had never told anyone what had happened to him down there. How he’d gotten abandoned by his swarm and then torn to shreds by a larva of Leviathan, just when he was summoned. He’d never told anyone because he’d assumed he’d never have to go back. 

He needs help. He needs to find someone to tell him that everything will be fine, that he’s okay, that nothing is going to happen to him. Not Omega. Omega is a ghoul, he couldn’t know these things for sure. 

Phantom pants, eyes frantically scanning his surroundings. Vaguely he registers the older quint asking him something, but he can’t make out the words. His ears and throat feel like they’re stuffed to the brim with cotton, hindering every try at listening or even breathing. 

He needs to get out of here. 

The adrenaline finally kicks in and he bolts up from the couch and to the door of the den, ripping it open without bothering to soothe the seal with a password. He can hear Omega calling after him but he doesn’t stop. His legs start moving almost on their own, carrying him up the stairs and through corridors he doesn’t recognise. His vision swims with unshed tears as he sprints, his body moving without his control. 

His feet slam over the marble, echoing in the hallways. It feels like the walls are closing in on him. He pants harder, vision going hazy with both tears and hyperventilation. His sides burn but he doesn’t stop running. Can’t stop running. 

The floor beneath his feet turns to stone and rubble and suddenly he’s back in the Pits, running for his life from the flying hellbeast he knows will get him. He can feel its large teeth sink into his flesh, tearing him limb from limb as he screams and thrashes in agony, trying to get free but failing each time. His blood is oozing out, he’s losing life essence. His powers seem to do nothing against the unyielding monster, tearing into his small body with claws and fangs, ripping skin and muscle, crushing bone- 

Phantom yelps as he runs straight into someone and falls to the floor. The ground is cold. Cool, black and white tiles against his hands as he props himself up. He’s not in Hell. 

He shakes his head and gets back up to start running again but is yanked back by a hand grabbing his wrist. Restricting him. Holding him. Phantom feels like prey. 

He thrashes and wails, high chirps and yowls of panic filling the air. 

“LET GO! LET ME GO, LET GO, I NEED-“, his voice is shrill and he has no idea if he’s yelling or sobbing. 

“-tom! PHANTOM!” 

He turns at the firm, serious tone, barking his name, and looks at the person he bumped into. 

Perpetua stares at him, mismatched eyes just as wide as his. He’s clearly confused and Phantom can smell that he’s scared. He doesn't show that though. Instead he draws his brows together and forces his face to stay firm. 

For a brief moment, Phantom is relieved. Then the panic is back and he thrashes his head from side to side, voice rising even higher in pitch until it feels like he’s going to tear out his vocal cords by screaming. 

“LET GO! I NEED TO GET OUT! I DON‘T WANT TO BE SENT BACK!“ 

He tugs so hard, trying to free his hand that he almost worries about dislocating something. Perpetua is surprisingly strong and holds him without any visible strain. He mutters something under his breath, Phantom thinks is a swear and then raises his voice. 

“Phantom! As your Papa, I command you to stop!” 

It’s quiet. Deadly quiet, safe for the sounds of Phantom’s panicked heaving. He’s stopped moving, that’s for certain. But his heart is still hammering and adrenaline is still searing through his veins, butchering every try at a coherent thought. 

He feels empty and his body is stiff. 

Perpetua breathes in and then tugs him to stand close. 

“Calm down, please. It’s fine. You’re okay. Here”, he holds out his hand and Phantom reaches over, grabbing his wrist to feel his pulse. 

The slow, steady beating that seems so foreign, compared to his own racing heart. The contrast is so harsh that it actually snaps Phantom out of his panic induced haze for a moment. He stares and pants, tail flicking. 

“That’s good. Come on. You’re here. I’m here.” He tugs Phantom just a little closer and into a hug. 

It’s a bit awkward but also comforting in a way that makes Phantom realise what is happening to him. Where he is and who he’s facing. He’s okay. He’s Topside. With his Papa. That’s okay. 

“I- I’m… fuck, I’m so… I don’t want to-”, his voice is strained and he feels like his vocal cords are just short of tearing. 

Perpetua watches him intently and then moves, guiding him through the corridors with a hand on his back, steadying him. Phantom continues to babble on incoherently, trying to form words that make sense. His heart is still hammering but it seems to be calming down gradually. 

Fabric flutters and when Phantom looks around, he finds himself in a small, dark room that seems to be caging him in on all sides. The space is tight but not in a claustrophobic way. It’s tight in the way a weighted blanket makes one feel surrounded and enveloped. He stumbles a little and yelps, sitting down on the small bench that seems to take up most of the space in the… He looks around. 

A confessional booth. 

”Wha-“ 

“Shh. Calm down, okay? You only start talking when you’re sure that you can without panicking, yeah?” 

Phantom nods and then they stay silent. The darkness is nice and calming, reminds him of the nights in the den where he’s cuddled up against bigger and more firm bodies, relaxing and sleeping after a day of practicing songs he loved. 

He closes his eyes and his tail starts to wag. Perpetua exhales in relief and pats his shoulder, other hand coming up to gently stroke between his horns. 

“There we go. Is that better?” 

Phantom opens his eyes and nods. 

“Sorry. I’m sorry.” 

The Papa shakes his head and crouches down, putting his hands on Phantom’s knees, rubbing gently. It’s a soothing, gentle motion and the quint feels tears prick his eyes. 

“Don’t be sorry for anything, okay? I want to know what’s going on, bug. Can you tell me?” 

Phantom blinks. He’s never heard Perpetua call him that before. No human, except for Copia, has. It gives him a sense of security and familiarity though and he can delude himself into thinking he’s talking to a swarm mate. 

“I was… Omega told me that ghouls that aren’t useful anymore-“, he heaves, tears running down his cheeks, “they get sent back to the Pits and I- I- hhh… I”

Perpetua frowns, lines etching onto his forehead. 

“Omega told you that? Are you sure you understood him correctly?” 

Phantom looks up, sniffling and wiping his nose with his sleeve. 

“What..? Why?”

The Papa leans up and wipes a few of his tears away. 

“Ghouls don’t get sent back anymore. As far as I’m aware, that hasn’t happened since 1957.” 

Phantom’s heart drops and he starts sobbing. He slumps forward and buries his head against the man’s chest, tears soaking through the dark violet fabric of his cassock. 

Perpetua shushes him gently and pats his back, rubbing his shoulders and murmuring gentle, reassuring nothings into his ear. It takes almost twenty minutes for him to calm down and Phantom feels his eyes dry. He feels shrivelled up and empty, like a wrung out sponge. 

“Are you alright?”, Perpetua asks after some time and the quint nods, sniffling a last time. 

“Mhm.. yes. I want… I don’t ever want to go back!” 

The man nods and holds his shoulders. 

“Okay, yes. Yes, I know. I understand, yeah? Can you-“, he sighs and shakes his head as if to calm himself. Phantom realises that he must be just as confused and scared as he is. Poor guy. “Can you just tell me what’s happening right now?” 

Phantom sniffles and looks to the divider between the two booths. 

“Go over there.” 

Perpetua follows his gaze and gets up. 

“Professional?” 

“No.” 

“Okay”, the Papa pets his head again and then vanishes through the curtain covering the booth, entering the next one. 

Phantom hears as he sits down and leans his head back against the thick wood, casting his gaze to the ceiling. There are some intricate designs carved into it, demons and angels fighting for the truth. Very symbolic, Phantom thinks. 

“Phantom?” 

He flinches and turns his head, leaning his horns against the divider. This feels better. It would be easier to tell his story if there was no face-to-face interaction. 

“I’m still here.” 

“Good. Do you think you can tell me what’s happening now?”

Phantom takes a deep breath and nods, wiping at his eyes. 

“You have to let me talk, okay? I need to… I need to finish this without being interrupted or else I’ll just start crying again”, he chuckles wetly. 

Perpetua only hums. 

It takes a while for Phantom to actually begin talking. And when he does, the words flow out without stopping. He tells the story of his entire life. 

How he appeared in the pits as a small and scrawny thing, a cub that was barely strong enough to hold its own head up. How he was raised by a big swarm with strong members that expected him to turn out like one of them. How they left him immediately when he didn’t. 

How he had to fight for himself, wandered from swarm to swarm, nearly escaping death a few times. Once he reached maturity he’d been a loner for almost a year, he remembers. He wanted to join another swarm, to try and better his life but even they kicked him out. 

That’s when the ritual happened, he explained. And when he was killed. He doesn’t mention the gory details but he’s sure Perpetua gets what he’s talking about anyways. Once he finishes, he’s crying again, head in his hands, tail curled around his own thigh in a search for solace. 

Perpetua remains quiet for a second and then there’s a rustling again. Phantom leans into the warmth that envelopes him as the man drags him into another hug, tugging him down to sit on the floor of the booth, snuggling up together for protection. 

Phantom cries harder until his brain hurts and his nose burns from the snot he’s producing. A large hand gently combs through his hair and he sniffles, knocking his horns against the man’s cheek. 

“You poor fucking thing. I’m so, so sorry”, Perpetua murmurs, pressing his nose against the quint’s temple. 

Phantom heaves and shakes his head, sniffling. 

“I don’t wanna go back.” 

“You won’t have to. Ever. I will make sure of that.” The Papa sighs and rubs his neck. “Have you told anyone else about this?” 

Phantom shakes his head. 

“No.. never thought I could.” 

Perpetua sighs and bumps their noses together. 

“You should. They deserve to know, don’t they?” 

“Yeah…” 

Heavy steps from outside let both of them perk up and Phantom chirps as if on instinct. The fabric of the curtain is pulled back and Omega meets his gaze. He’s panting, broad chest heaving and his lavender scent wafts off him in panicked waves. 

Phantom sneaks a glance at Perpetua and once he gets an encouraging nod, he chirps again, seeking help from the larger, older ghoul. 

“Fuck-“, Omega’s pupils dilate and he kneels down, picking Phantom up and hugging him against his chest, bridal style. 

“What happened?”, he asks, looking at Perpetua who’s rising to his feet as well now, straightening out his cassock. 

“He should tell you himself”, the Papa murmurs, gently plucking a strand of hair off Phantom’s forehead. ”He’s alright now though.” 

Omega nods. 

“I was so fucking worried. I was just- we were just having a history lesson and all of a sudden..”, he turns to Phantom and nips at his ear in a scolding manner. “You can’t just run off like that, you nearly gave me a fucking heart attack, asshole!” 

Phantom whines and ducks his head to escape the torment of the bigger ghoul’s teeth. 

“‘M sorry. I was… I got scared.” 

Omega blinks and then sighs, leaning down to nuzzle their horns together, chuffing gently. 

“We’ll talk back in the den, okay, baby? Don’t worry, I’m not really all that mad. Okay? I’m not mad at you.”

Phantom groans and nods, head pounding from the intense crying sessions he’d just had. Normally, he’d hate being coddled and talked to like a fucking dog but at the moment he can’t really find it in himself to give a fuck. 

“Yeah… alright.” 

“Good. Take care”, Perpetua says, squeezing Phantom’s hand one last time. 

The younger quint smiles weakly and nods, yelping a bit as Omega hoists him up a bit further and turns on his heel to march back to the den. 

“He’ll be back on his feet for tomorrow’s practice, Papa!”, the ex-guitarist yells over his shoulder before rounding the corner. 

Perpetua stays stood in front of the confessional booth, clasping his hands together in worry. He’d never heard of a ghoul with memories of their time in the Pits. Even though he’d received a thorough education on anything infernal in his youth, he knows that it was never mentioned that ghouls were able to keep their memories. Erasing the past of them being their own masters was part of the process, back in the day. Used to make them more obedient. At some point it must’ve become part of a ritual that couldn’t be changed anymore. And if that was the case, there should be no way Phantom remembered anything at all. 

He frowns and squares his shoulders before turning on his heel and marching towards the library, tail lashing behind him. 

[newtnoots]

Little Swiss scrabble!!

Tags: angst, major character death, self harm, insanity, Swiss ghoul, Mountain ghoul, heavy angst, isolated, self inflicted pain

Ao3 direct link^

rest under the cut

A burden

Always and forever, nothing more than that. His problems don't matter, never will, and never should. Nobody’s gonna care, he hasn't been through enough, it wasn't enough, never was, never will be.

Never enough

Overdramatic

It wasn't that bad

Tears welled in the ghouls eyes for the hundredth time, how many times was he gonna pathetically start crying again? He had no reason to cry, why was he crying? Only an argument, that was it, he was just being dramatic.

The multi ghoul sobbed onto Mountain's shoulder, buried himself away. He didn't fucking deserve this, he had no reason to cry, why the fuck was he so upset over a little argument? Mountain was completely silent, not even moving an inch. Swiss felt the earth ghouls warmth around him, he didn't know if he should stop crying and grow up or just cry more, he deserved it, maybe if he kept going they’d finally think he’d been through enough.

“I’m.. sorry..”

Swiss was met with silence, not a single noise, word, or even movement from Mountain. Did he care though? not really, Mountain had every right to ignore him, he was crying over something so small, why the fuck was he crying?

Why was he crying?

He couldn't answer the question, was it because voices were raised? but there wasn't a meaning behind it, it was just in the heat of the moment, it was stupid. he could take it before, so why not now? had he just become a weak crybaby? Why now all of a sudden?

Swiss felt a sudden wave of emptiness and dread wash over him, everything went cold, time felt like it was paused. That’s when he realized.

Blood dripped from his palms, leaving red trails…like a river… as it trickled down his arms.

Clothing ripped, messed up, dirty.

Glass shards in his legs, everywhere.

His face was wet, tears flowing needlessly down his cheek like a waterfall that would never run out of water.

Mountain not there. He wasn't there, never was. He had never even stepped foot in the room. No one had, not since Swiss locked the room and boarded up the windows, leaving himself in the dark secluded room, empty.

Swiss made a useless attempt at shakily standing up, leaving red bloody handprints on the floor as he collapsed back onto his knees.

Right, he had been sitting way too long. How the fuck was he supposed to walk.

How many days had he been awake? he lost count, why sleep? he was just fine, wasn't he? Even if he wasn't, other people had it worse.

Stop being dramatic

Swiss would never be able to escape them. Not anymore, at least. Voices echoing through his head, now also through the room.

His empty, dull, laugh bounced off the walls, repeating itself, loud and clear. He sounded dead, passed on, lifeless, unalive, everything but alive, cheerful, happy. The adrenaline of new cuts would never get old, would it? Always a repeating cycle.

Cold, metal invading and piercing the skin.

Nothing, silently watching as blood slowly formed small beads on top of the once clean and unharmed skin.

Stinging, tears welling, now finally remembering as all the pain slowly seeped in.

Numb, then done, that was it. So short, yet felt so good, so right.

Oh.

The vein.

A smile slowly took over his face as he took in what he had done. This was it. Nobody would have to think about him anymore, they could all live happily, without him.

His head was spinning, where was he? how would he know, why would he care, he didn't. vision going on and off, black to not and then back to black.

Get out.

No, let yourself go.

Please leave, they’ll help you.

They don’t give a single shit about you, it's not worth it.

What does water feel like?

Get. Out.

How do you use your legs?

Stay. Stay and die.

Save yourself, you can't breathe.

What would it feel like to be loved?

He would never know. Not anymore. His eyes glazed over, the last tear falling as he made one more attempt to smile. His body went limp, muscles weak and exhausted as a thud was heard when he dropped from his knees to lay still on the concrete floor.. His mind was in chaos.

Is this really what death felt like?

It was all so empty, but full. Thoughts scattered everywhere unorganized in his mind, chaotic.

He smiled, eyes locking onto the top corner of the room, a camera. He knew everyone was watching. He put it there, they could celebrate when they saw him dead through the screen.

“No!-”

Mountain’s broken sob and cry was the last thing Swiss heard through the thin walls of his once beloved ministry and home, before taking his last, deep breath.

[corkinavoid]

DPxDC Alt Rock to the Rescue

[Inspired by this art]

"...Alright, I might have an idea," John Constantine, who was seemingly busy texting someone for the past ten - or twenty, no one really counted - minutes, puts his phone away and snaps his head up.

The room falls silent. Superman blinks in surprise, Diana frowns slightly, and Batman's mouth is pressed into a thin, stubborn line. Flash recovers first.

"You have an idea?" He huffs a short, disbelieving laugh, "No offense, but I'm not sure a magic trick can help us against, you know, an alien fleet." He gestures to one of the screens on the wall, where said fleet is approaching Earth on live.

The rest of the Leaguers present don't exactly agree with him, at least not verbally, but the mood in the room shifts from tense, anxious alarm to an almost palpable annoyance. To be honest, no one was even sure why or how John Constantine of all people ended up in the meeting. It's not like JLD could actually help with an ongoing, massive invasion that was about to happen in less than three- Correction, less than two and a half hours. Besides, it's John Constantine. The man that never shows up unless outright bullied into submission.

The magician winces briefly and starts rummaging through his pockets under the weight of everyone's attention.

"I said I might," he amends gruffly, getting a cigarette out of one of his pockets and sticking it in his mouth but not lighting it. Seems like it wasn't what he was looking for, though, because after that, the man keeps going through the various places on his coat, patting himself down. "I know someone who can deal with it. Granted, I already owe him a great deal, but he won't say no," he pauses and grimaces, "At least I hope he won't."

"I do not think it would be wise to call upon gods in our situation," Diana tries carefully, but John pays her little mind.

"Or demons," Green Arrow adds, crossing his arms on his chest, "I'm not selling my soul to get rid of some rocket ships or whatever they are."

Now, that makes the magician bark a laugh. Or, maybe it's the piece of lime green paper - a sticky note, actually - that he finally finds in the depths of his pockets.

"Oh, your soul's gonna stay where it is."

"Constantine-" Batman starts, but John cuts him off instantly.

"Mine will stay wherever it is as well," he reassures the man, "It's not that kind of entity." And with that, he promptly sets the green note on fire - green fire - and uses it as a lighter for his cigarette.

The next moment after the note is reduced to ash, there's a shift in the air in front of him, and, before any of the heroes have a split second to react, there are two people floating in the middle of the room, backs pressed to each other.

Two teenagers, to be exact. A girl and a boy, both of them so pale that their skin looks gray, and both dressed in grunge, like they just came from a rock concert. Yet, that's where the 'normal' parts of their looks end - the boy's hair is so white it looks blinding, and moves in the air slowly, undeterred by gravity, and the girl's hair is neon blue, her ponytail flickering up like a flaming torch.

The boy nearly topples over as the girl leans her back on him harder and kicks her feet up slightly. The movement is awkward, like both of them were taken by surprise by the sudden relocation, and maybe the guess about the rock concert was not so far from reality; there are drumsticks in the boy's hands, and the girl is holding an electric guitar in her hands.

"The fuck?.." The boy asks no one in particular, as the girl makes an annoyed groan and straightens up, still floating in the air. Her guitar makes an aborted sound. Meanwhile, the boy's eyes land on Constantine, and his whole face scrunches in disgust, "John, for the love of Ancients, I was in the middle of something."

The girl takes a look around while her friend is busy expressing his annoyance and elbows him in the side, "Oi, look, it's the whole Comic Con in the flesh here."

Green Arrow sputters. Flash makes a wordless but very offended sound. The floating boy looks around, taking stock of faces in the room, and the disgust on his face morphs into exasperation.

He turns back to Constantine, "Really? I thought I told you I want no part in your furry parade."

"Alien invasion," the magician decidedly doesn't address any of that, instead pointing his finger to the screen behind him. "Thought you ought to know," he adds, a bit of sarcasm bleeding into his tone.

"Ooh, is it my turn to be your world saving buddy, Phantom?" The girl perks up, turning around and draping herself over the boy's shoulders with a giddy laugh. Her guitar shifts to hang in the air on her side all by itself.

The boy - Phantom - rolls his eyes. Bright green, glowing eyes that definitely don't belong to a human being.

"If I had a nickel every time I had to save the world, I'd probably be able to buy myself my own guitar," he grumbles and looks back to Constantine. "Do I, like, have to? Right now? You know, I don't get paid for this bullshit, and the studio we rented for rehearsal has an hourly rate, so if we can postpone this for about an hour and a half, that'd be real nice."

"The fleet is only two hours away from Earth," Batman supplies suddenly, and, when both floating kids turn to look at him, adds, "I can pay for your next rehearsal. Or a few of them." Evidently, Phantom's comment about nickels struck a nerve. Or, maybe, the man just likes throwing money at any teenager he encounters. Who knows.

The boy blinks, taken aback by the proposition. But the girl grins, sharp and wicked, and shoves her drummer - if the drumsticks are to tell - in the side again.

"Hey, free studio. Better than the last time."

That snaps Phantom out of his stupor, and he groans, "Don't remind me." With a weary sigh, he runs a hand through his hair and leans back in the air, almost like reclining on it. "Okay, fine, sure. Do you want them, like, away from Earth- um, this is Earth, right?" He turns to Superman, surprisingly, looking for confirmation, and the man nods, thrown off guard. The boy nods back and continues, "Or you want them blasted into oblivion, or what?"

"Whatever suits your mood, kid," John waves his hand at the screen as if making a welcoming gesture, "But all the aliens gotta go."

Unexpectedly, that makes the girl's grin even wider, and she reaches for her guitar, floating around Phantom and looking him in the face. The look she gives him speaks of mischief, and the boy seems to understand what she's implying before she as much as opens her mouth.

"Ember, no," he pounts a drumstick at her.

"Ember, yes," she wiggles her eyebrows, "Come on, your wail is boring as fuck as it is, why not spice it up?"

"I'm not wailing," Phantom scrunches his nose, "My throat will hurt for weeks."

Ember runs her fingers over the strings of her guitar, and it makes a comparatively quiet, vibrating sound. A few cords shoot out of the bottom of her instrument, like ones used to plug an electric guitar to an amp. She raises her eyebrows, still looking at Phantom, a silent conversation between them.

Then, the boy huffs and rolls his eyes, twirling a drumstick in his fingers.

"Fine."

The cords fly at him like snakes, aiming at his neck. None of the Leaguers watching the encounter get to say even a word as the metal pins insert themselves into the boy's neck, acting like some twisted kind of collar. Phantom doesn't even flinch.

Ember's guitar, on the other hand, reacts to the connection quite violently: it makes a high-pitched sound all on its own and then changes color from black and blue to white and green, with lightning bolts instead of flames for design. The girl's ponytail flares up higher as she softly murmurs in delight.

Then, she turns to the people around them and smirks, "Which way is the evil alien fleet?"

Flash wordlessly points his finger to the right and up. The girl nods in satisfaction, turning in the air so her guitar is facing that way.

"You might want to cover your ears," Phantom advises, a sly smile on his face and a glimmer of anticipation to his eyes. John Constantine follows that direction immediately, and, taking his move as the best course of action, the other heroes follow as well. Except Batman, who only narrows his eyes and looks at both teens in the air apprehensively. Phantom shrugs, "Or don't, I don't hold any responsibility for your shattered eardrums."

"Pick up where we left off, then," Ember tells him, and the boy blinks:

"Wait, I thought you'd just-"

[For some wholesome experience, put your headphones in and listen to 'KULT' by Jisaiah, grandson, and Steve Aoki]

But the girl has already started a tune, nodding her head to the rhythm of it and slowly picking up the pace. Phantom huffs, but doesn't protest any further, floating up as much as the cords allow him and spinning a drumstick in his hand.

"Maybe I should join a cult

At least they'll tell me it's not my fault

That the world's a fucking circus

That my life feels fucking worthless," he spits the words out with a sneer, slowly rotating in the air until he is hanging upside down. His eyes are closed, and his voice becomes more and more staticky with every new sound. The volume of Ember's guitar gets up, higher and higher, until the walls and the floor of the room around them start to vibrate.

Then, Ember's voice joins Phantom's, and the boy brings his drumsticks down on thin air, mimicking the moves. Only, even with the actual drums not there, the air around him ripples like they are, and they all can hear the beat.

"Maybe I should join a cult

At least they'll tell me it's not my fault

When it all comes crashing down

We'll see who's laughing," both kids pause, just for a beat, and Ember uses that split second to spin the volume knob to the max before strumming her guitar in one wide, sharp move.

"NOW!"

The sound wave is not only palpable, it's visible. A wave of toxic green ripples through the air, knocking everyone present - sans the two kids in the air - to the ground, and goes beyond. The screens on the walls flicker and turn off, sending sparks in the air, and the comms give off loud, screeching noises, and-

The following silence feels almost deafening.

Batman, unsurprisingly, is the first one to stand back on his feet and see a few of the screens come back online.

Just in time to see that same green wave of... sound? energy? power?.. decimate the entire fleet like a wet cloth over a chalkboard. One moment, the spaceships were there, and the next they are gone, wiped out of existence.

Ember laughs, leaning back and almost doing a backflip in the air.

"That was nice, dipshit!" She shoves Phantom in the shoulder, and the boy snorts, plucking the cords out of his skin and grinning.

"Yeah," he agrees with a smile, not even looking at the screens around, "Maybe we should try rehearsing in space next time. Sing to the stars and all that crap."

"Sing to the stars?" Ember raises her eyebrows mockingly as the rest of the heroes scramble to their feet, bemoaning their ringing ears. "Na-ah," she clicks her tongue and turns to Batman, "You still up for paying for our studio?"

The man just grunts in a semblance of affirmation.

"Sweet," the girl grins and offers Phantom a hand for a high five, which he returns instantly. "Cheers to the world being saved once again!"

The boy just rolls his eyes and turns to Constantine, "Next time, be a dear and text me before summoning, or I'm going to sell your soul to Morpheus, and who knows what he'll do with you."

John Constantine grimaces. "I did," he offers grudgingly.

But both unearthly teenagers are already gone without a trace.

[Edit: I want everyone to know there's ART now!!!]

[Edit 2: There's more art!!!]

[killerpancakeburger]

Thinking about a Reader who ends up having Scary Dog Privileges with Ghost without meaning to. It just happened.

Then they have to deal with the fact that this comes with duties too.

Tags: civilian!reader, gn!reader, mostly fluff, a bit suggestive, smug!Ghost, smooth!Ghost. 800 words.

Part 2. Part 3.

When Ghost is reluctant to getting sutured in Medical after accidentally opening his stitches, grumbling he can do it himself, who does the nurse call for? Yeah, you.

She could stand her ground, after all she's used to dealing with big, whiny men, but it's much more fun to knock on your door and smile at your bewildered gaze and gaping mouth when she explains the situation in two sentences.

"Ghost's being difficult, mind taking over?" "I'm sorry, what the hell does this have to do with me?" "C'm'on, everyone on base knows he's got a soft spot for you. Don't you want to make my job easier?"

You roll your eyes and slam your hands on your desk as you get up. Groaning as you walk past her— "I'm doing this for you, nothing else, got it?"

Mumbling to yourself "you've got to be kidding me" as you barge into the sick bay. Ghost is coolly seated at the end of a bed, large as life, casual clothes as black as his mask and— oh. You weren't told the wound was on his thigh— you weren't warned that he didn’t have pants on. You can’t help it, your eyes go down, down, your lingering gaze and your flustered silence forming a confession louder than words.

A noise — a scoff or a grunt, you’re not sure — emanates from him, breaks your trance, makes you look up. The amusement in his gaze tells you he noticed your oggling— of course he did. Nothing gets past the Ghost, and you've been remarkably unsubtle. Despite the mask, you swear you can make out the smug smirk on his lips. His cockiness reignites your irritation. Annoyance making you bolder than you really are, you charge at him, crossing the distance between you two in a stride, stopping close— too close. He doesn't back off.

"What's wrong with you?" you snarl. "Nothin'," he retorts, imperturbable.

It's actually the first time you’re overlooking him. You may be enjoying it a bit too much. Nevermind the fact that you've had to wedge yourself between his parted legs to get there.

You frown, unconvinced by his answer.

“Did Soap contaminate you?”

Bargaining to be cleared out earlier was the Scotsman's trademark.

“Johnny throws a fit cos he hates feeling useless. That's not what I'm doing.”

A smirk stretches your lips.

“Oh, no? I'm sure your reasons are much more noble.”

“Doesn't matter. Got what I wanted anyway.”

He's way too self-satisfied for a man in his underwear.

You throw an unequivocal look in the direction of his injury.

“What you wanted? A still open wound?”

“You.”

He replied without missing a beat, as confident as usual. It is both alluring and aggravating.

“And your idea of wooing me is making me upset?”

You don't add “because if it is, that's really fucking stupid” out loud, but you’re sure he got the message through your tone.

“Nah. But you're more honest when you’re angry. Gutsier.”

You only realize he slipped his index and middle fingers in your trouser loops when he sharply tugs at them. Off balance, you steady yourself by catching his shoulders.

Taking advantage of the strip of bare skin between your shirt and bottoms, the pads of his thumbs idly stroke your hip bones. The contact sends electricity through you, shivers of pleasure running down your sides.

“Ghost,” you start, severe, trying not to let the effect his touch has on you show in your voice.

“Simon,” he counters, surly. “Told ya it's Simon when we're alone, didn't I?”

He did, but you didn’t think he was serious. If that's what it takes to get him to listen… you’ll play by his rules.

“Simon. What's the rest of your brilliant plan? I'm here, but I can’t stitch you up.”

“How ‘bout a deal. I'll stop resisting… for a price.”

You raise an amused eyebrow.

“What kind of price?”

“A kiss.”

You snort. You didn’t believe him capable of something so… puerile.

“With the mask on?”

He doesn't move a muscle to get rid of it.

“Take it off.”

You usually wouldn’t obey what sounds like an order so easily, but it's the first time you get to touch the skull. Slipping two fingers between skin and cloth, you slowly roll up the mask all the way under his nose.

You gently trace the scars surrounding his lips. Then, the second you feel him relax, grip on your hips slackening and intensity of his gaze waning, you grab the bottom of his mask and drag it back down vigorously, making the holes for the eyes land way too low for him to see anything.

“If you thought you'd get a reward for acting out, you've got another think coming.”

[jinjeriffic]

DCxDP Persephone 2.0

(Somehow, even when I come up with an angsty scenario it turns into zany comedy hijinks. Send help.)

Cassie, Tim, Kon and Bart are hanging out, just chilling, when a glowing green minotaur pops out of nowhere and yoinks Wonder Girl into another dimension.

Obviously, Cassie is so not down with the whole kidnapping thing, so she starts beating up all the Greek mythological monsters in sight. Soon enough, Pandora pops out of the woodwork and orders everyone to stand down.

Pandora: *sigh* I ordered you to escort her here, not drag her kicking and screaming. Ugh, it's impossible to hire competent help these days. Come child, we have much to discuss.

Cassie: Uh, it's an honor to meet you ma'am, but why am I here?

Pandora: It's quite complicated I'm afraid. To make a long story short, a few years ago the tyrannical ghost king was defeated by a young ghost hero, and by right of conquest the crown passed to him. However, since he has not yet reached the age of majority a regency council was put in place until he is old enough to be formally crowned.

Cassie: What does that have to do with me?

Pandora: You see, your father, Zeus, wishes to make an alliance with this new power...

Cassie: Oh no

Pandora: ...and so he has offered your hand in marriage to the young prince, as he once did Persephone's to Hades.

Cassie: That fucking asshole!

Pandora: And the regency council has accepted on the prince's behalf.

Cassie: *cracks knuckles* So, what's your opinion on patricide?

***

When Cassie meets Danny, she fully expects him to be some pompous asshole.

Danny: I am so fucking sorry!

Cassie: Huh?

Danny: *wrings hands* I'm sorry you got dragged into this mess! This was not my idea! But the council are a bunch of stuck-up jerks who think this is for the good of the realm and...

Cassie: So the wedding is off?

Danny: Well... unfortunately Clockwork is the one who floated the idea? And he only gets directly involved if it's like, end of the world kind of stuff...

Cassie: Who's Clockwork?

Danny: The Master of Time. He uh, helped me prevent a potential future where my soul got merged with that of my arch-nemesis and I miiiight have wiped out all life on Earth. But uh, that timeline is gone and you don't have to worry about it!

Cassie, muttering: Chronos?

Danny: So I think we might be stuck with each other, unless you have an idea on how to get out of this?

Cassie: Well my friends are bound to come rescue me, so...

Danny: Stall?

Cassie: Stall.

Queen Dora, popping in with a dozen handmaidens, a measuring tape and hundreds of dress and fabric samples: ~ Who's ready for a makeover? ~

Cassie: Oh gods just kill me now

***

Cassie and Danny both go full Bridezilla in an effort to delay the wedding, nitpicking everything from the clothes to the flower arrangements.

Cassie: I am not wearing some poofy monstrosity to my wedding. I want a tux! If anyone's gonna wear a dress it's gonna be him.

Danny, posing in front of a mirror: What do you think, can I pull off a mermaid cut?

***

Eventually, they can stall no more and the day of the wedding arrives. Zeus is there to give her away as the father of the bride. Cassie tries to stab him with the cake topper.

The wedding proceeds, they are standing in front of the Observant who is officiating. Cassie is glaring murderously at Zeus. Danny just looks resigned. Suddenly, there's a loud screech and a bang. The team has arrived to crash the party...!

...by literally crash landing the stolen Specter Speeder on top of Zeus.

*smash cut to a flashback of Tim reading the Drs Fentons' research and breaking into Fentonworks*

Tim, Kon and Bart pop out of the smoking wreckage.

Tim: We object!

Observant, outraged: On what grounds?!

Kon: Wonder Girl can't marry the ghost prince, because... because I'm marrying her!

Tim and Bart: Wait what?

Danny: Oh thank fuck *rips off his veil and dress and chucks it at the Observant* Cassie, do you want to marry Superboy?

Cassie: I do!

Danny: Then by the power vested in me by the Crown and Ring, I now pronounce you Super and Wonder. You may kiss the bride or whatever.

Cassie dip kisses Kon in front of the assembled ghost citizenry. Tim and Danny disappear into a broom closet during the wedding reception. Bart demolishes like 90% of the buffet by himself.

***

In a dark room, Clockwork is repeatedly watching Zeus get pancaked in slow motion and chuckles to himself.

Roll Credits

[cat-commander-23]

“Leave a light on f’me, yeah?”

It was how he said “I love you and I’ll be back home” in his own way. You were never allowed to know the specifics, where he went, how long he’d be gone. But you could always count on a long kiss at the front door and those words whispered against your forehead in a final embrace.

You continued on in life, waking up to cold sheets, going to work, drinks with friends, and the never ending upkeep of the house. The silent house that technically you shared, but rarely cohabitated. There were no photos of a smiling couple on the wall, no extra set of shoes by the door and no coat waiting beside yours for the next adventure.

But there was always the light. A table lamp, picked up at a thrift shop one day to fill an empty space in the living room. It had seen better days before you hefted it home, a relic of another time of solid metal and outdated fabric. It filled the space in your living room and its dim light became a hopeful beacon home.

As you’d wander off too bed, whether it be an early night where you just couldn’t take the silence anymore or stumbling in after one too many with the girls, you made sure to turn the lamp on. A gentle tug of the cord, casting shadows in the living room and some rays through the closed blinds.

You’d send a small prayer every night that you’d wake up and the light would be off, signaling Simon had come home. Likely asleep on the couch because he always woke you up when he lumbered in, and Simon hated waking you.

The longest you’d gone was 3 months, 90 nights of turning it on and turning in. Only to wake up to that damn light creeping under your bedroom door, getting clicked off with a sigh. But there has always been an end to the storm, that joyful morning, like a kid on Christmas seeing that Santa came. You’d roll over, see no light from the other room, and launch out of bed, attacking the poor sleeping soldier with kisses and tears.

But this had been 4 months. And then 5 months. At the 6th month mark, you started turning on more lights. Each light switch, cord pull or button to push became a little prayer. By the 8th month, your front yard looked like the crack of dawn. Every single light was on. All night. Hoping to draw him home, to be that beacon he always requested. Your poor neighbors probably thought you were crazy, and by then, you felt like you were too.

Your heart couldn’t let you stop, no matter how ridiculous you felt, haunting the halls like a ghost at dusk. Turning on every light methodically, working your way through the house and glancing back to the driveway one last time before bed. Then continuing the routine in reverse in the morning, switching them all off as tears fell.

Until one night, you woke up to a warm body and a rough whisper.

“What the bloody hell is our light bill now?”

.-.-.

Blame it on the fact that I’m from the south and country music is part of my bloodstream. Inspired by: every light in the house by Trace Atkins

[starry-bi-sky]

"Uhp-uhp-bup-bup." Danny says loudly, cutting off the crime lord bleeding all over his living room. He presses a finger to his lips, despite knowing that Red couldn't see it, and stifles his rage behind a playful smile.

He's lucky he's facing the kitchen, his back turned to Hood. He can see the fury green of his eyes reflecting back at him in the chrome of the sink, he's threatening to crush the rag in his hands. His vision is futzing out in the corners of eyes.

"We don't speak the 'J' name in this household." He says in almost a sing-song, because if he doesn't, then the Gotham oil sitting, boiling, behind his teeth and coating his tongue will spittle out and Danny's already haunting his apartment just by his mere presence. He doesn't want to haunt it more.

He can hear the whine of the lightbulbs, threatening to burst like a popped balloon. He turns the water off and and rings the rag out tighter than he perhaps should.

"You don't like the clown?" Hood asks him, and Danny's not sure if he's mocking him for it. There's a knowing lilt in his voice that throws back Danny to their first meeting on that balcony. If he were anyone else, Danny might've just punched him.

His heel turns sharply towards him, a tight smile on his face and an even tighter look around his eyes. At least he knows that the green has faded because the pounding behind his eyes are gone, his grief-born, death-made rage sizzling back beneath his veins. "I think you already know why, Ridin' Hood."

A grief like this don't stay buried, after all.

[ikiprian]

Clark is taking Kon and Jon out for a classic, super-style bonding flight. Just a quick jaunt around the US and back!

They don’t get far. Somewhere in Illinois airpace, they run across another family.

The three (a hulking man, a snarky teenage boy, and a cackling youngest girl, each a grayscale blur in the blue, blue sky) throw neon-lit beams of energy at one another, quips and insults flying almost as fast as they do. It looks like training. It looks like fun!

The boy of them looks like a younger version of the man. Exactly like, even. Clark is familiar with clones.

The youngest, a girl, looks like both of them, but not quite. Perhaps she will, age sharpening her childish features, but it’s hard to say. More likely, she’s the man’s daughter.

Interested, Clark introduces himself to Dan. He seems to be a hero in his own right, even if Superman’s yet to see him in action. And it’s not often Clark sees a family so like his own!

[nemo-writes]

𝗂𝗆𝖺𝗀𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍 𝖻𝗋𝗂𝗍𝗂𝗌𝗁 𝖻𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗈𝖿𝖿 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝖿 141 𝗆𝖾𝗇 ── .✦

main masterlist

── .✦ 𝗀𝗁𝗈𝗌𝗍

the couch is comfy, the lights are low, and you've just started this week's episode of the great british bake off. simon sits beside you, eyes half-focused on his phone, thumb scrolling. your feet rest on his lap, his free hand absently tracing circles on your ankle. he seems entirely uninterested, barely looking up at the screen as you comment on the contestants’ desserts.

for the first twenty minutes, he’s quiet, only glancing up occasionally, but then someone messes up their cake, and he lets out a low snort. he mutters, "did they not put it in long enough or what?"

it’s a small crack, but it’s enough to make you smile. "guess they didn't. timing is everything, right?" you tease, knowing full well he’s starting to pay attention.

in the next challenge, a contestant fumbles with a piping bag, and simon lets out an unimpressed tsk, his eyes narrowing at the screen. “how can they not know how to pipe a line straight?” he scoffs. "basic stuff."

you laugh. "i didn’t know you were such an expert."

he grumbles, still keeping his eye on the show, now feigning casual disinterest but failing miserably. as the episode progresses, he starts asking more questions, wanting to know the contestants’ names, who’s been there longest, and who has been star baker.

when the star baker is announced, he nods his head in approval, as if he saw it coming all along. he shifts his gaze to you, smirking at your amused expression.

“see? knew they had it in ‘em,” he murmurs, squeezing your ankle gently.

you raise an eyebrow, playing along. “so you’re an expert now?”

instead of answering, he leans over, his hand still wrapped around your ankle, to press a kiss to your neck, his breath warm against your skin. you can’t help but laugh as he nuzzles closer, his tone dropping to a playful murmur. “might have to make you something better than all that… if you’re lucky.”

his lips linger, making you laugh again, your fingers brushing his jaw. simon may be a fierce critic, but at this moment, he’s more than content to just savor this quiet time with you.

── .✦ 𝗌𝗈𝖺𝗉

from the second the episode starts, johnny's practically buzzing beside you. he’s been all in on the great british bake off since day one, and tonight is no exception. every time his favorite contestant, a sweet scottish lady with a knack for old-school recipes, appears on screen, he perks up, practically bouncing on the edge of his seat.

when she starts her bake, he mutters words of encouragement under his breath. "c'mon, hen, show 'em what a real baker looks like." and when one of her rivals stumbles, he grins, clapping his hands together. “ach, my nan could beat the lot of them in her sleep! they’ve got nothin’ on her shortbread.”

as the judging rounds begin, his excitement ramps up. his favorite contestant gets a compliment, and he yells, clapping loud enough to startle you. “there ye go, lass!” he hollers, and suddenly, he’s grabbing you by the shoulders, shaking you in glee. “did ye see that, luv? she’s bloody brilliant!”

by the time they’re announcing the star baker of the week, johnny is practically holding his breath, eyes glued to the screen. when they call her name, he jumps up with a whoop, fists pumping in the air. “yes! that’s it!”

before you know it, he’s pulling you into a bear hug, lifting you off the couch in his excitement. he plants a big, wet kiss on your lips, grinning so wide it’s infectious. “didn’t I tell ye? she’s got it all—best baker in the lot, no question.”

you laugh as he sets you down, his enthusiasm contagious. johnny love for the show might be loud and over-the-top, but as he flops back onto the couch, arm still around your shoulders, you can’t help but smile at just how much he’s gotten you invested, too.

── .✦ 𝗀����𝗓

at first, kyle watches the program with an easy, relaxed attitude, barely reacting when the contestants present their bakes. he stretches out, arms resting behind you and smoothing down and up your nape, all while nodding along when you explain the technical challenge, giving little more than a shrug in response.

but as the episode goes on, his interest starts to show. he sits up a bit, leaning in every time the camera shows off a new dessert. when a contestant presents a towering lemon drizzle cake, his eyes light up. “could you make that?” he asks, an excited glimmer sneaking into his voice. “i’ll buy the ingredients and clean everything up, promise.”

you snort, but he’s already pointing at the screen, his tone downright eager. “what about those cinnamon rolls? look at the icing on those.” he’s watching you now with a hopeful smile, like he’s a kid at a bakery window. “come on, love, just think of the smell. i’ll even be your sous chef—whatever you need.”

by the time they’re onto the show-stopper, kyle is all in, leaning forward as contestants knead and roll their creations. every new bake has him asking if it’s something you can try: sourdough, brioche, even the elaborate pastries. “we could have a whole buffet,” he says, only half-joking. “imagine—warm, fresh pastries every day. i’d never go back to store-bought again.”

when the episode finally ends, he’s scrolling through a recipe app on his phone, jotting down a list of things he’s ready to buy. “alright, love,” he says, grinning as he gives you a playful nudge, “you bring the talent, I’ll bring the supplies. deal?”

with his enthusiasm—and his promises to handle cleanup—there’s no way you can resist, especially when he’s looking at you like you’re the star baker of the night.

── .✦ 𝗉𝗋𝗂𝖼𝖾

you’ve just settled into a new episode of the great british bake off when john wanders into the room, curious but clearly trying not to look too invested. he stands right in front of the tv, thick arms folded across his chest, watching with a thoughtful frown as contestants start their signature bakes.

you chuckle, leaning forward to get his attention. “love, if you’re gonna watch, at least come sit down. i can’t see a thing.”

he raises a brow, glancing over his shoulder with a little smirk, but he doesn’t move. so, grinning, you reach over and give him a playful smack on the butt with one of the pillows, laughing as he finally grumbles and takes a seat next to you. he watches intently, nodding every so often and making small, approving sounds whenever someone does a particularly good job.

it’s not long before he’s making comments that surprise you with their accuracy. “you know, the rise on that dough’s spot-on. smart move not to rush the proofing,” he says, as if he were one of the judges himself. when a contestant uses too much sugar in a caramel glaze, he clicks his tongue in mild disapproval. “that’ll be sickly. just needs a touch less.”

you blink, impressed, and maybe just a little bit...turned on. “you know a lot about baking, captain.”

he shrugs, scratching his beard with a faint smile on his lips. “just some bits i've picked up,” he says, casual as ever, though you can tell he’s enjoying himself. then, after another thoughtful hum as he watches a contestant start their showstopper, he glances at you. “could give it a go myself, if you want. just say the word.”

you beam, practically bouncing as you loop your arms around his neck “yes! let’s do it!”

he chuckles at your enthusiasm, his hand squeezing your hip gently. “alright then,” he says, a bit amused, a bit serious, “but you’ll have to help out, and no slapping my cake when i’m concentrating.”

banner credit

[atomite-ton]

chimera shifter ghost au where he grows and changes through various animal features.

it’s constant to the point he has to entirely cover up to prevent others from seeing as feathers melt into scales, back into skin, quills emerging only to be replaced with spines and then whiskers.

after a full week of consistently carrying varying kinds of bird wings on his back, soap finally convinces him to let him preen the itching feathers as they descend into disarray.

halfway through, as soap’s sitting straddling ghost's back where he’s splayed out on his bed for better access, the feathers start to stretch and meld together. soft fluff is replaced with iridescent membrane that splits and elongates into 4 fluttering dragonfly wings.

ghost, half asleep and completely relaxed below him, doesn't seem to notice. so soap just continues gently running a dampened washcloth along the newly smooth surface, admiring the shimmer, and quietly memorizes the subtle green shine along delicate veins to later document into his sketchbook.

ghost doesn’t know it yet, but soap keeps a detailed documentation of every shape he falls into. Every scale, antler and spine lovingly etched in graphite and whatever coloured pigment he can get his hands on, safely kept in its own special journal. it's safe to say soap delights in the ever shifting face of his lieutenant, but what truly catches his attention, is the man who wears it. (and maybe one day, when ghost finally sees it, its the final push he needs to finally let soap in. ghost's made him wait long enough.) ((soap doesn't mind. he would have waited forever, if that's how long it took.))

[palesweetsdeer]

swisstom fic... idk what about perhaps freaky perhaps hurt/comfort... we shall never know. please and thankyou

Okay here we go! This is short but I like it!

Pairing: Swiss/Phantom

Main content: bonding over physical impairment (Swiss with Tremors, Phantom with leg pain)

————

What we share

Phantom bounces his leg and watches as Swiss rummages through his closet, looking for his old uniform. 

The den is mostly empty, their swarm mates having better things to do on this beautiful summer evening than lounging under ground. Swiss and Phantom had stayed back because the quint had begged to see the band uniforms before his time. 

Swiss sways his hips to a tune only he can hear and Phantom’s eyes follow the way his tail swishes. 

The atmosphere is calm and serene, Phantom feels happy and content. 

“Aha!”, Swiss growls in triumph and straightens back up, pulling a long, black suit out of the closet and holding it up to his frame. 

Phantom’s ears perk up and he watches as the multi pulls the fabric’s limbs into place against his body, demonstrating how it would have fit. It seems a little tight, especially over the chest and thighs. 

Phantom almost drools at the thought of seeing any of his swarm mates in those tight clothes. Sathanas, he’s gotten horny lately. 

“Woah…”, he murmurs and reaches out, running a hand over the soft fabric. It feels like velvet, almost. 

Swiss’ tail wags proudly and he pushes his chest out. 

“You should’ve seen us in these, buggy. I’ve never seen anything hotter than Rain and Aether’s asses in these babies”, he points to the pants. 

Phantom coos and crosses his legs on the mattress, the tip of his tail wagging as well now, catching onto Swiss’ excitement. 

“I can imagine. They’re really cool. Can you uh..”, Phantom’s ears flick and pin back. It’s still difficult for him to ask for what he wants but Swiss has always been patient with him. “Could you put them on? I’d like to see how they look… on you.” 

Swiss’ lips break into a grin, tooth gap on full display. Phantom feels his eyes fix on the small crack between his front teeth and his tail wags faster at how cute it is. 

“Sure I can, baby, no need to be ashamed about wantin’ t’see me in this sexy piece ‘a shit”, he rumbles and then leans back to unbutton his current uniform. 

His hands shake. Only a little at first and it’s barely noticeable. He manages to easily get the first button open before the stuttering worsens. 

Swiss draws his brows together and snarls in frustration, forcing his hands to work, although his fingers shake faster with every passing second. 

Phantom frowns in concern and moves to sit up. 

“I could help-“ 

“I’m fine, bug”, Swiss grits out, eyes fixed on the button he’s trying to push out of its hole. His fingers keep slipping, claws clicking together as he fails to grasp the metal, tremors wracking his hands. ”I can… I know how to handle this.” 

It’s obvious that he’s trying to conceal his frustrated anger for Phantom’s sake. The quint sits back and watches in discomfort, wanting to help but holding back as he’s ordered to. It had been a bad day. Maybe something was in the air, maybe it was the stress of an upcoming tour… every ghoul with a condition had complained about it being worse, all day long. 

Swiss with his tremors, Zephyr’s legs, Mist’s asthma and Ivy’s tinnitus. Even Phantom had felt his left leg hurt more than usual. 

“Fuck!”, Swiss snarls, head moving in a motion that seems to be repeated, energetic nodding, brows drawn together in confusion. 

He lets his hands drop to his sides and balls them into fists, tremors wracking his forearms and fingers. His tail swishes and he looks at Phantom with something that the quint can’t quite place. Anger? Fatigue? Shame? 

Phantom scoots over to the edge of the mattress to carefully touch the multi’s thigh. 

“Hey… it’s okay, you don’t have to put it on right now. We can wait until you’re doing better. You don’t need to stress yourself.” 

Swiss scoffs, snout scrunching up. His frantic head movements slow and eventually die down, but the shaking in his hands and forearms remains. 

“This is fucking bullshit. You shouldn’t have to see me like this. I’m supposed…”, he pauses, searching for the right words with grit teeth. “I’m supposed to have myself under control.” 

Phantom frowns. 

“I’m no expert in medicine but… aren’t tremors literally something you have no control over? You don’t have to be ashamed about anything. I’m not a little kid, I won’t be grossed out by your hands shaking.” 

Swiss sighs and shakes his head, tail curling around his waist. 

“I haven’t had it this bad in forever”, he murmurs. “Ghouls don’t often get human… health issues. I don’t understand why it’s coming back.” 

Phantom purrs gently, rubbing the older ghoul’s thigh reassuringly. 

“Maybe it’s the stress. You have a lot of instruments to take care of, new songs to learn. I remember that it was similar when we went for the Re-Imperatour. You were pretty… shaky back then too.” 

Swiss opens his mouth like he wants to protest again and Phantom interrupts him by rolling up the left leg of his pants. 

“I’ve got it bad today too. I think it’s kind of a collective swarm thing”, he suggests, wincing a bit as the fabric brushes over the bumpy, raised skin. 

Swiss stares down at the claw and tooth markings that decorate the quint’s entire leg, from his hip down to his foot. The scars are bright, almost as white as his quintessence markings. 

They’re what’s left of his more than traumatic summoning. A reminder of the way that beast had torn into him. He doesn’t know why his leg is the only affected body part, but it is. He lacks any other scars or lasting issues. All he has is occasional stiffness or a sharp sting through his muscles. 

Swiss looks down at his leg for a moment and then kneels down, wrapping his shaky hands around the grey skin, massaging Phantom’s calf gently. 

“How bad is it?”, he asks, voice calm and gentle. 

Phantom sighs and bonks their horns together. 

“Just as bad as yours, I can imagine.” Phantom curls his tail around Swiss, holding the older ghoul’s tassel with his own spade. “You don’t have to be strong for me, Swiss. I know how your condition can be, I won’t judge you.” 

Swiss chuckles and rubs their cheeks together. 

“Where ya learnin’ all that sappy bullshit from, buggy?”, he asks, hiding his fondness beneath sarcastic chuckling. 

Phantom smiles, nuzzling the multi back. 

“I’ve been reading Mountain’s poetry. You should give it a try too, he’s good.” 

Swiss grins and moves to sit on the mattress tugging Phantom against his chest in a hug. The quint snuggles against his broad chest and feels the way strong, trembling fingers rake through his hair. 

“If it makes me as soft as you… I think I’ll pass”, Swiss chuffs, tilting both of them back until they hit the mattress, curling up together, the old uniform mostly forgotten and buried under their entwined bodies. 

Phantom smiles and closes his eyes, kicking up a gentle, happy purr that melts into Swiss‘ chest and the muti’s soft, low chuffing sounds. 

“You wanna nap until it gets better?”, Phantom asks after a few minutes and is met with nothing but gentle snores and slow breaths against his hair. 

[bone-trash]

Trans!Ghost (who usually bottoms) lets Trans!Soap ride his neocock to “try it out” because he has questions/is considering Phalloplasty (he isn’t he just wants to fuck that large dumb man he loves so much)

Soap: Fuuuck, yer big…

Ghost: You don’t seem to be having any trouble with it.

Soap: Says the man who takes my strap like he was born fer it, go fock yerself Simon.

[corkinavoid]

Hey, @confused-they, this is for you and for everyone else who wanted more of this AU. Merry Christmas.

DPxDC Ring of Rage? More Like Ring of Engage [pt. 4]

[<- part 3 | additional notes ->]

[Written to 'Tantrum' by Ashnikko]

TW: mentioned mild gore (some inside parts become outside ones, nothing graphic)

Tim can't breathe.

Joker's mad laughter is ringing through the darkness of the warehouse, echoing in his head, the screeching sound straight out of nightmares. Hood should be nearby - as in, somewhere in this darkness along with him - but Tim can't think about that, his own maniacal giggles bubbling in the back of his throat, a grin tugging at his lips.

He has to get up. He has to stand, he has to fight, and it really shouldn't be this hard.

But he can't breathe.

Tim clutches his fingers on the fabric of his suit on the chest, distantly wondering if this is how Danny feels when he is more human than ghost. Probably not, he mentioned that breathing is only optional.

He really wants his boyfriend right now. His fiance. Whatever, he wants Danny, he wants his cold hands on his cheeks and the faint, humming purr of his core that Tim finds nice to fall asleep to, and-

Maybe later. He can't exactly summon him now, not in the middle of a fight, especially not in the middle of a fight with Joker of all people.

There's an angry growl somewhere to Tim's left, staticky through the voice-modulator. Then several sounds of gunshots and a gleeful, taunting yell of the madman.

Hold on.

Tim snaps his eyes open - not that anything changes, everything is still pitch-black around him - and blinks.

Why not?..

It's not like Danny is a civilian. Tim tends to pay little attention to the fact since the King of Infinite Realms doesn't hang out with the whole superhero convention on principle. But Tim is pretty sure he won't mind it this once.

Besides, Tim is so done with Joker that it's not even funny.

A few breathy chuckles escape his throat as he lets his body fully slump back on the floor and brings his left hand to his face, placing a quick kiss on the Ring through his glove. He doesn't need to do that, not really, but it's kind of a ritual at this point, and the gesture somehow makes him feel better.

"Danny," he whispers.

For a long moment, nothing happens.

Then, there's a soft, popping sound, and his beautiful boyfriend is floating right over him, faintly glowing and a little sleepy. Tim is momentarily distracted by his bare feet and pj pants with tiny rockets on them.

Danny yawns and tugs the hem of his t-shirt down as it starts to float. "Whas'sup," he mutters, rubbing his eyes and clearly not fully awake, and Tim's heart melts instantly. He loves Danny. He just... He loves him, okay? He loves that Danny didn't question his summons for a moment, he loves that he came even though he was obviously sleeping, and he loves that Danny is wearing a tee he stole from Tim.

Unfortunately, before he is able to get his shit back together, another sound of gunshot ripples through the air, and Danny startles, blinking himself awake and looking in the direction of it. Then, his eyebrows shoot up, and his mouth makes a soft 'O' shape before he turns back to Tim and tilts his head in question.

"You want me to deal with him? The clown, I mean, not your brother," he asks, and it's so casual and off-handed that Tim actually huffs a laugh.

"Sorry, I was just- I'm really tired of his ass," Tim should probably sit up, this is not a talk they should have while he is lying on the ground. On the other hand, Jason is somewhere out there, and he has guns and doesn't have a clear visual around him, so maybe Tim shouldn't sit up.

Danny hums, "Is that a yes?"

Tim just nods. He is pretty sure Danny can see him despite the darkness. "I promise it's a one-time thing, I don't plan on calling you every time one of local lunatics acts up. I just... I fucking can't with him," he admits with a defeated sigh. But, before he can spiral any further into the abyss of unworthiness, Danny's cold hands are cupping his cheeks, and his icy eyes are looking right into Tim's sky blue.

"Love, I don't mind getting rid of each and every one of your Rogues. Granted, it would probably fuck up the timeline, and Clocky would be mad, but I'd do it if you want me to, no questions asked." His voice is quiet, and Tim has never been more grateful for his domino mask, because he can feel his cheeks heating up and he doesn't want Danny to see the exact effect his words are causing.

"I- Okay," he quietly agrees, and then blinks, backtracking, "Wait, no, don't fuck up the timeline. Just deal with the laughing bitch this once, and that's it. We can handle the rest."

Danny is smiling at him in that adoring way Tim recognizes as 'I really want to kiss you, but it's not the time or place'. Then, he nods and lets go of Tim's cheeks, straightening up in the air, and his clothes shift all at once, like a magic trick.

Gone are the stretched out t-shirt and the pants with rocket ships. In their place, Danny's body is head to toe covered in stars and galaxies that hold the vague shape of armor, and there's a slightly shimmering, blueish-green translucent cape over one of his shoulders.

The Crown over his head, the sentient artifact much like the Ring on Tim's finger, appears from nowhere, and, after a brief pause - Tim swears it was debating on whether or not the situation is worth the effort - promptly sets itself on fire. Blue flames cast long shadows on Danny's, no, King's face, making him look older and his cheekbones sharper.

Before, the boy was only faintly glowing, and, evidently, the others present in the warehouse were too distracted to notice him.

But now, with the flaming Crown casting dancing shadows on the walls of the warehouse, it's really hard not to see the otherworldly being making an appearance.

"Holy fuck," Tim hears Hood's quiet, astonished voice, and almost cracks a grin.

Yeah, he wants to say, that's my boyfriend. Although he suspects he and Jason are having vastly different reactions to Danny's presence. Because Tim kind of wants to take all his words about dealing with Joker back and take Danny home, straight to bed.

...He is going to have to strangle Jason in his sleep if his reaction is similar. No, that's a wrong thought, this is so not the time for it.

"Who are you, flying glowstick?" Joker sounds rightfully pissed off by the interruption, "Does Batsy employ alien kids now?"

Danny chuckles, the starry freckles on his cheeks glowing brighter, "Okay, just because you compared me to an alien, I'm not going to completely erase you from this plane of existence."

Tim snaps his head up.

"Wait, no killing," he reminds, not because he actually cares but because B would throw a fit. Danny brushes him off with a wave of his hand.

"No worries, he'll stay alive," he smiles at Tim, and to everyone else, it probably looks like stuff of nightmares, sharp, pointy teeth and lips stretched out far beyond human capabilities. But Tim sees it for what it is: a face of mischief.

"Do I get a vote in this?" Jason's deadpan voice comes from somewhere on the other side of the warehouse at the same moment as Joker screeches in rage, "Who the fuck do you think-"

"Nope," Danny pops the 'p', and Tim is not sure if he is answering to Hood or refusing to listen to the clown's monolog by it. Maybe it's both. It's probably both.

The next moment, Danny is gone, disappeared from the place he was floating at, and Tim hears a wet, very unpleasant sound followed by Joker's scream of pain.

"You see this?" He hears Danny's nonchalant, unfazed voice above the clown's pained cries, "This is your rib, bitch- Hey, quit whining and listen to me, it's important."

There's a slap, a rustle, and a sound of ripping fabric, and Joker's voice becomes muffled, like someone put a gag in his mouth.

"You're like Adam now, you know, lacking one rib," Danny continues, "Only I'm not making you a girl out of this one, I'm pretty sure you don't deserve to reproduce. Anyway, going further down that metaphor, I'm the God almighty in this situation, so if you want to keep the rest of your ribs - and the rest of other things that are supposed to stay inside of you - to yourself, you gotta do a thing for me, okay?"

There's some muffled groans that Joker makes in response, then an enraged growl, a sound of a struggle, another slap, and then that same wet, disgusting squelch.

"Two ribs, wow, okay, you're really being difficult about this!" Danny sounds so innocently dumbstruck about it that Tim suppresses a laugh. "Are you listening now?" There's a quiet, choking wheeze that answers him, and Danny sounds quite pleased when he says, "Great."

Tim debates if he should look. He doesn't exactly want to since the sounds provide enough context, but it might be somewhat cathartic for him.

And then the air around him inexplicably shifts, becoming cold and oppressive, weighting Tim down like a heavy blanket and pushing him into the floor. The dancing shadows and the blue light of flames on the walls twist and churn, like taking aim, and Tim doesn't know what Danny looks like right now but he knows he is as far from human as possible, his voice coming with a staticky, echoing whisper, a threatening hiss slithering inside Tim's ears.

"Play your little games all you want, Fallen Jester, but know that you can not win. The punchline to your joke is long overdue, and your soul has belonged to me for quite some time now," his words are cold and uncaring, and in all the time Tim has known his boyfriend, he has never heard him speak like this: with a sense of lazy power, like he is only humoring the people around him.

Like they mean nothing to him.

"I will not kill you, or at least not here and now. My Guiding Star doesn't want to see my hands dirty with your filthy remains. Besides, death is only a moment, and you don't deserve only a moment of suffering," he huffs a short, humorless chuckle, "But, luckily, I am the Eyes of the Universe, the Titan's Bane, the King of the Dead, and everyone will meet me once their eyes fall shut for the last time," there's a smile in his voice now, full of cold and merciless anticipation. Tim feels a shiver run down his spine.

"So just you wait, Jester, and I will meet you on the other side. Then we'll see how whatever is left of your soul is going to spend an eternity."

Tim's ears are ringing with the pure, somehow gleeful hatred that laces those last words. He didn't know he could literally taste the disgust and the promise of pain, and yet, here he is, with a hint of something sour on his tongue.

And then, the heavy, weighted air that has been charged with power is lifted, the shadows and bright blue lights are all gone, and Danny, wearing his pj's and smiling, is standing over him. His feet are planted on the ground for once, and the Crown is gone without a trace, but his t-shirt is still trying to float up. The boy tugs it down again, offering a hand to Tim.

"Wanna go out for a burger since I'm already here in Gotham?"

Tim had never breathed easier in his life. He laughs a little and reaches up, taking his beautifully unhinged boyfriend's hand and standing up.

"I thought you'd never ask."

[cod-dump]

The 141 looking at videos of younger price doing things they got in trouble for and got them yelled at by price

Keepsakes

___

"God, when was the last time he came here?"

"Long enough he doesn't want to bother cleaning this shit out himself," Ghost muttered as he shoves a facemask into Gaz's hands. The dust made it necessary.

Price finally made the decision to have his old storage unit cleaned out. He himself hadn't bothered to do anything yet, but he's convinced the boys to do some cleaning for him. He gave them a list of certain things he's looking for, then to their surprise Laswell did as well. Apparently it was a shared storage unit against Price’s will.

"There's the box Laswell told us to grab for her."

Most of the boxes were marked by young agent Laswell, a clear warning not to touch them to a Lieutenant Price.

As they stuffed certain boxes into the van they arrived in, Soap found an old jacket. Not worn in years, SAS embroidered on it with Price's name proud on the breast. Soap shook the thing violently, to relieve it of any unwanted bugs and dust, before put it on. Almost a perfect fit.

"Hm, think he'll notice?"

Gaz snorts as he dares to open one of the boxes, "You're him made over."

Soap grins despite the sarcasm and starts posing, earning laughter from Gaz. Ghost rolled his eyes at him while he sorted through the boxes. He finally stops next to a particular box, kicking it lightly, "Nik box."

Soap and Gaz immediately dart over. Nik was precious with his mementos. Safe guarded them like a dragon. None of them saw anything he didn't want them to see, not picture or saved bullet casing. Not a single story unless he gives it up. Laswell and Price weren't so closed off and will start up a story from asking.

"Oh- What do you think is in it?"

Ghost lightly kicks the box again before he confidently says- "Nudes."

Soap gags and Gaz cackles.

"The head of his enemies. Or their di-"

"Stop," Soap grumbles as he pulls the box to the side with some of Laswell's.

There was something precious about how close they were, Price getting a storage unit only for Laswell and Nik to shove their own things inside without care. They didn't have any doubt the only protest from Price was only a bit of grumbling before he just let it happen.

“I think Nik wouldn’t let anything… unsavory be left where we could find it. There’s no way he would forget the location of anything sensitive.”

“What if, and hear me out, he’s forgotten with old age?” Ghost countered seriously, Gaz cackling in response.

Soap opens the box without hesitating another second. Ghost and Gaz whipped their heads around to stare as Soap pulls out a large book. It was a photo album with a slip of paper labelling the front. In Russian of course, just like the writing labelling the box.

“Alright, who’s been paying attention in Nik’s sort and somewhat weird lessons in Russian?”

Ghost stares hard at the photo albums front, truly concentrating as hard as he could. Gaz stared for a few seconds, eyes flickering to Ghost a few times, like he was waiting for him to reply. He didn’t, so Gaz did.

“I think it’s along the lines of ‘my sweet John’.”

Soap gags dramatically, “God, is it actually nudes?”

Ghost hums, “It’s not like we haven’t seen them naked before.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t want to see anything else beyond basic locker room shit.”

They were delaying, even though all of them desperately did want to know what was inside. But none of them made a move, just staring at the photo album while also eying each other. After a third minute of rather uneasy silence, Ghost sighs loudly before he grabs the photo album.

“Well, might as well. What’s one more piece of trauma?”

He unties the string keeping it closed, taking a step back before taking a deep breath, bracing himself. Soap and Gaz stared at him, waiting. So Ghost flipped open the album.

“Oh.”

Soap and Gaz shared a look before looking back at him, “Oh?”

Ghost flips a page, then another, before looking up, “They’re candids. A lot of them.”

Soap and Gaz finally look, and he was right. Each page was several pictures of a young Price just existing. Some of him napping in odd places, stuffing his face with questionable looking food, arguing with a young Laswell — He was just existing. And his behavior displayed in the photos were familiar.

“Johnny, weren’t you napping under the table the other day?”

“Weren’t you stuffing your fast with the shit you found in the back of the fridge?”

Gaz takes over the photo album, fondly looking at the pictures. Several photos, if not all, were taken clearly without Price’s knowing.

“Good to know Nik hasn’t lost any love,” the countless times Gaz has caught the man taking pictures of Price without the man knowing. He really wanted to know what his photo gallery looked like.

Suddenly, Soap gasps. Gaz looks up and Soap is holding a video camera, grinning madly.

“Sex tapes.”

“Simon!”

Gaz eagerly reaches for the camera, “Let me see!”

He saw the box it came from, labelled by Laswell. It was safe to look through… maybe.

He messes with the camera, laughing gleefully when it still turns on. Ah, they don’t make them like they used to.

“This is history!”

“And blackmail,” it was clear why Ghost was here. He never would pass up an opportunity to hold something over someone’s head, even the people who could make him disappear.

Gaz selects a video and starts playing it, watching the tiny screen intently. He wasn’t expecting to witness a past event of Price arguing with a currently unknown SAS officer, one that appeared to out rank him. He was cussing the man out with his full chest, and Gaz couldn’t help but look up at Soap.

“… what is it? I hear yelling.”

“I think we took after Price more than he realizes.”

Soap and Ghost were on either of Gaz now, watching the tiny screen with their chins on Gaz’s shoulders. Gaz played another video.

This one started with the camera facing a grinning Laswell, none of them could recall ever seeing such a mischievous look on her before. The camera switches over to show Price sitting on top of a cabinet with a guitar in his arms. He was clearly waiting for someone to come through the door by the cabinet.

“Do you know how many times he’s bitched at me for climbing on furniture-“

“Shh!”

Price was grinning at the camera and Laswell, and then an infamous figure they’ve all heard of but saw few photos of walked through the door. Captain MacMillan left his mark on Price, but clearly Price also left a mark on the man. Upon entering the room, he turns to say something to Laswell, then Price aggressively started playing the guitar.

“JONATHAN YOU CUNT-“

Laswell cackles as MacMillan grabs Price’s leg, dragging him from the cabinet. The camera cuts off right as the cabinet comes down with Price, the shock on his face blurred on the screen as the video ends. Gaz covered his mouth and Ghost leaned away. Soap chose to break the silence.

“I think he would throw us into a lake with bricks tied to our feet if we showed him this.”

“Clearly we make copies.”

They knew he was trouble in his youth, but this? Oh this was hypocrisy. And Laswell was in on some of it? Oh this was blackmail for sure. Ghost got what he wanted.

“Copies, Kyle. We need copies-“

Yes, they all were in on this. This was worth it.

[redfadedghost]

There are some days where Simon still struggles with waking up in a room that isn’t his but is in a house that isn’t his but is, next to a man who isn’t his but is in a bed that isn’t his but is.

He’s never really had a proper place of his own. In the first few years of his service, he’d stay at his mum’s house or in his brother’s guest room. After they passed he no longer had a place to go.

So he got the cheapest tiny bachelor flat that wasn’t his but was (price’s name was on the lease)

And Simon rarely stayed there. The white walls were empty and he only had the necessary furniture, the place never feeling like home.

When Johnny offered him to stay with him at his house for their extended leave, Simon was hesitant. He agreed, but he felt like a guest while he was there. Nothing of Johnny’s fault, the man doing everything to make Simon feel at home, it was just the way he is.

Slowly, over time, he felt a bit more comfortable being there, fit in better, felt a little bit more at home. Johnny even took him to the shops one day and made him pick some new stuff out for the house - a blanket, a painting, a couple knick knacks. With the added touches, the place slowly morphed from Johnny’s house to their house. Little bits of Simon slowly started filling in the empty spaces of the house, like his presence was missing the entire time.

The little voice in the back of his head never stayed completely quiet, some days piping up to remind him that this wasn’t his home, he was just staying there, even after years of spending every leave there, even the ones where only he was sent home, and after letting his lease expire on the old flat.

As the months went on, Simon got better at ignoring that voice and listening to Johnny’s instead. It’s your place, too, Si. No where else I’d rather be than in this house with you.

So even though some nights he wakes up in a place that doesn’t feel like it is his, Simon is still able to go back to sleep in a room that was his in a house that was his, next to a man that was his in a bed that was his.

[meowmeowriley]

Ghoap Actor AU but 'Ghost' is the stage name used by a a mysterious man who takes "faceless" rolls. Rolls that require pounds of makeup, tons of prosthetics, huge armor suits and feats of puppeteering. No one knows what he looks like, or his real name, and he likes it that way.

Sorry, it got kinda long lol, ficlet after the cut.

Johnny is a new face but damn is he winning hearts quickly. He loves fantasy and sci-fy rolls, and for him getting cast as the heart throb muscle-bound hero is as easy as smiling. A smile which sweeps any and all off their feet, straightness be damned.

Working next to The Ghost is as much a dream come true as it is fucking terrifying. His list of rolls is as long as Johnny is tall, the man is a legend.

Said legend stalks into the catering tent in full makeup, extras scattering because the man is honestly pretty intimidating. Ridges and bumps, red skin and horns, all work to completely dehumanize his features and frighten away any potential lunch buddies. After grabbing his food he stalks back out wordlessly.

They hadn't shot any scenes together yet, but the schedule called for the two of them to be working together nearly every hour of the next week, and John was determined to make a good impression. He grabbed his own food and swiped some fancy wrapped chocolates, perhaps to share and make friends, and scampered out after Ghost.

The man was seated alone, at a table under a tree. He'd popped his fake fangs out and sat them on his tray, and was digging into his sandwich. Red hands tipped in wicked red claws expertly avoided spearing and shredding his food.

Johnny plopped down across from him.

"Cannae be comfortable, wearin' all 'o that all day." Best to get the whole 'being Scottish' thing out if the way immediately, he often had to hid his accent for rolls and this was no exception. Opening his mouth and speaking naturally always garnered a huge reaction, generally glee, from his co-stars. Though, if Ghost was surprised by it, he made no comment.

"Been doin' it for years, 'm used to it." John found himself the one surprised, he hadn't expected the man's voice to be so lovely. Nor had he expected the man to be a fuckin' brit. Clearly he'd also been masking his accent. Shame, Hollywood always loved an evil Brit.

Delighted by this new discovery, Johnny launched into introducing himself, gushing about the rolls he'd seen Ghost in and how he'd loved his performances. Ghost didn't respond much, but slitted pupils with gold and red irises never left him, and even through the makeup a small smile played at the corner of his bright red lips.

Ghost didn't participate much, throwing out a hum or a nod, an occasional quip, but Johnny quickly realized the man was simply quiet, as every time he stopped he'd receive a few words, a gentle nudge to keep going. All was well until Johnny finished his meal and started in on his chocolates.

He'd held one out to Ghost, who took it, and wordlessly sat it on his tray, mirth dancing in his eyes, amplified to a mildly animalistic predatory level by his contacts.

Johnny had rolled with it, assuming the man was just happy about the sweet, and popped his own in his mouth. Only to spit it back out immediately after crunching down.

"Ach, that is VILE, the fuck is wrong with this chocolate?" Johnny stuffed his fingers into his mouth, attempting to scrape the bits that had secured themselves in and between his teeth.

A deep rumbling belly laugh enveloped him, the sound coated his body, every last inch of him, and locked it into place. Fingers still stuffed into his mouth and crouched over like a golem, Johnny watched wide eyed as Ghost leaned back, shoulders heaving and a clawed hand over his brow as he laughed uncontrollably at John's plight. "It's not chocolate," the man gasped out, "it's bloody hand soap!"

Johnny groaned and spat out his fingers as well as a few bubbles. He'd grabbed them from beside the hand washing station, but hadn't thought anything of it. Why the fuck were they wrapped all fancy like?!

Ghost stood, and clapped a hand on Johnny's shoulder. "I look forward to working with you, Johnny." He sighed between fits of laughter. He grinned and popped his fangs back in. "Keep up, Soap."

Johnny turned and watched Ghost stalk back into the catering tent to return his tray, silicone tail swishing side to side, really lending itself to Ghost's jolly demeanor as he left, still chuckling. Johnny felt his face flush, knew he must be as red as Ghost's makeup, in embarrassment, knowing he was gonna be stuck with a ridiculous nickname, but also from realizing he was still bent over and staring at Ghost's ass. Was his ass really that nice, or were those heels, designed to look like hooves, just working absolute wonders?

Thus began Soap's insane crush on a man he knew nothing about, not even how he looked.